


The Boy Who Hanged From Hooks

by drowzeee



Category: RWBY
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Emetophobia, Faunus Oscar Pine, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowzeee/pseuds/drowzeee
Summary: Oscar copes with the terrors of torture the only way he knows how; snarking Ozpin.(This is an Oscar torture fic focusing on the downtime between the beating sessions we saw onscreen. Includes realistic depictions of injuries and their side effects that we did not see in the show. Protective Ozpin and a sassy, suffering Oscar just trying to survive.)
Relationships: Ozpin & Oscar Pine
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	The Boy Who Hanged From Hooks

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little self indulgent hurt and comfort oneshot. Hope you enjoy! I wrote this half awake.

There is a pain that burns deeper than the physical body can comprehend. It is the soul, wounded and violated in a way that only magic can reach. Destructive magic, ancient and tainted with desolation. Hatred. Cruelty. It is so cold, frozen black water under the burnt flesh of Oscar’s chest. 

The metal of his belt is red hot, melting through his thin shirt and into his chest. His entire chest is scarred with ash. It burns but it is nothing compared to the teeth clattering shiver in his soul. 

Their soul. 

_That was hardly a fraction of her power._

“Not... helping...” Oscar croaks, flat on his back. 

Oh, yeah, there are also the Hazel-obtained injuries. They’ve yet to touch on those.

_Sorry._

Ozpin is just as if not more rattled than Oscar is. First with Salem and her— the way she was so possessive. Gripping his face with such vigor only to turn those fingers around to caress him softly with veiny knuckles.

He shudders at the memory. Too soon. Focus on other things right now. The beatings were almost preferable compared to those brief moments face to face with her. 

His lungs strain under a deep breath. 

_Almost_ preferable. 

_They do not seem broken, but it would be best to keep pressure off of them. You must sit up._

“Okay,” he says. He takes a slightly deeper than normal breath, fighting against the instinctual cough that wants to break free. 

_Cough if you must. Don’t fight it._

“It’ll hurt...”

_I know. I’m sorry._

As he pushes himself to his elbows, he does cough, and the pain shoots through his entire body from his ribs outwards like a firework. A firework composed of thumbtacks. 

But he manages to drag himself to one of the large teeth protruding from the ground.

_Good job. Rest a moment. We will need to take inventory of your state after each... round._

Because there will be more, they both know. There is no doubt. 

Round one was just Hazel’s grieving round. No questions asked. No interrogation. Only vengeance against a hardly guilty man and a very innocent child. 

Punching, kicking, slamming. Over and over and over again. 

And yet, it felt like mercy. Somewhat. Oscar doesn’t know how he can tell, but he can; Hazel was holding back. It still hurt more than anything Oscar has felt in his life (until moments prior with _her_ ) but it was not nearly the worst he could do. 

Oscar shudders again, the aftershocks of Salem’s magical assault still eating away at his soul. Ozpin grunts, feeling the brunt of it. She attacked their _magic_. The deepest inner part of them.

“Are you okay?” He asks Ozpin, because the chance of the man looking after himself in this situation is bar none. That leaves Oscar to the task. 

_No. We need to check for other injuries. You may not have your aura but there can be ways to treat yourself. Begin with your feet and work up._

Well, at least he was honest. 

Oscar wiggles his toes. Those seem fine. His steel toed boots protected him well. 

Next he rolls his ankles. Not too bad. A little sore still from his landing strategy descent from Atlas to the slums. Otherwise no new injuries. 

When he prods at his shins and knees with clinical fingers, then he feels the pain. Having landed on them many times after being tossed around like a chew toy, they’re sure to be bruising under his pants. Deep, deep bruises. 

_Nothing we can do about those, I’m afraid._

“At least they’re not broken... yet.”

Ozpin almost makes a sound akin to a laugh. 

He continues. There are bruises practically everywhere both from strikes and collisions with the walls and floors. His tail is bent in the middle, still numb, and he positions it between his spread legs so he doesn’t put unnecessary pressure on the worst part. 

“Okay, what can I do about that?”

_It’s hard to tell from my position. Does it feel dislocated? Broken?_

Oscar is hesitant to find out. Rather than attempting to move it on its own, he runs his fingers over the hot spot. Pain shoots down his spine. Not as numb as he’d thought. He bites back a whimper. 

“Ow.”

_If you let me take over I can bear the burden._

“No. I’m not— not ready for that. I can handle this myself.” He can feel Ozpin’s guilt and frankly? Not a great time. Even if it does make Oscar feel weirdly grateful. “Thank you, though.”

Ozpin hums. 

_I believe you may have a damaged vertebral disc or two. There is... nothing we can really do about this without aura. That type of injury takes time and nurturing to heal._

“Crap.” He sighs, sliding down a little lower against the tooth. Instant regret when his ribs spark. He scoots back up. 

_Take ten slow deep breaths for me, please._

Okay, he can do that. 

Ozpin counts him through ten cycles. He really really didn’t miss this old nuisance, but having an experienced helping hand isn’t a gift he’ll deny. Even if that man is the reason he’s being tortured at all. It is unfair, to blame Ozpin for the actions of others, so Oscar mentally takes that back with a shake of his head. He’s a bit crabby considering his circumstances.

_We can check your chest last. How are your hands?_

Oscar carefully flexes and bends all fingers then rolls his wrists. He winces. 

“I might have torn a muscle. I don’t think landing on my palms over and over again did them any favors.”

_Agreed. After we check your other injuries, I’d like you to keep your hands straight and as still as possible._

“After the other injuries...” Oscar slowly raises a shaky hand to hover over his chest. He... doesn’t want to see what awaits him under his shirt. What would even be the point? They don’t have any burn cream. No aura. It would only make Oscar sick to his stomach. 

_I know it’s scary, but if you’ve proven anything to me, it’s how incredibly brave you are._

He can do nothing more than huff in response as he slowly unclasps his top and only button. Already he can feel his skin tugging.

“This is gonna suck, Oz.”

_Make it quick. You can rest after._

“Okay. Okay.” He takes short breaths. “I can do this. Just gotta see it then I can be done.”

_Check for anything dire we may need to address._

“Shut up,” he says, not demanding, just apprehensive. “Okay. Here goes.”

He peels the right side back first. It stings, it hurts, like plucking thousands of cactus pricks from his skin at once with a roll of wax. His skin is— how to even describe it? It reminds him of bubble wrap and _holy ffff_ that was possibly the worst comparison he could have conjured up.

 _Stop. That’s enough._ Ozpin nudges his hand back towards his chest. _You’re going to hate me for this, but put it back on._

“Oz— you—“ He growls. Ozpin’s apologetic wince cuts him off. 

_We saw it. You’re done. We can’t do anything for it except prevent it from getting infected to the best of our abilities. That means covering it up. And buttoning your shirt._

“I’m going to kill you,” he snarls through the pain of following those instructions.

_You can try. I wouldn’t stop you._

Oscar slumps back against the whale tooth. All of the fight leaves his body at once. The ice under his chest has begun to melt. 

“You know I would never purposely hurt you. Not... again.”

_Mm._

“I’m sorry for that.”

_You have nothing to apologize for. I deserved everything that came upon me._

“No you didn’t.” He glares at nothing. “I took away your ability to choose. I took away your ability to consent. I’m apologizing for that.”

_Oscar—_

“And I’m sorry for saying what I did, back in Mantle.” He closes his eyes. “It— it isn’t entirely terrible having you back. Maybe.... you’re not the worst company in the world.”

 _I...._ Ozpin is at a loss for words. Oscar can feel his utter shock. Then comes rushing in the fondness, the tooth aching love and appreciation. The fire dousing self deprecation. _I suppose only one person has me beat in that._

“Yep.” He rolls his eyes under closed lids. “The only thing worse than a man who made misguided mistakes trying to protect humanity is evil incarnate herself. It adds up.”

_Your point is loud and clear. Thank you, Oscar. Why don’t you get some rest before our next round? And give some thought to my offer._

“Okay.” He resists the urge to curl up on his side and shrink. It’s impossible to ‘get rest’ here with the smell of rotting flesh and metallic blood hanging in the air, the promise of pain lurking just outside waiting to stalk in at any moment. 

But he tries, because Ozpin is back and watching out for him.

* * *

_Oscar._

It’s easier than it should be to wake up considering how little sleep he’s gotten in the past.... however long it’s been. He blinks around the crust in his eyes and is alert within seconds. No one is in the room. It is quiet aside from the occasional whale call.

“What?” He takes an experimental breath and _oh_ his entire body is sore. 

_Someone is approaching. Now is your last chance to switch._

“He’ll just go harder on you.”

_I could pretend to be you._

“Oz, seriously, stop. I appreciate it but it won’t work.”

_A-alright then. If you ever need me..._

Ozpin takes a back seat, settling somewhere a bit deeper in Oscar’s mind. No longer feeling like his shoulder is being hovered over, a sigh escapes Oscar. 

The small bliss is momentary. 

The door opens, squelching and gross, but it isn’t just Hazel standing there. Tyrian is next to him, tail perked and pointing over his shoulder. Oscar’s entire body freezes up. 

“Ohohoho, and here is the little sapling hosting our esteemed guest.” The scorpion darts into the room, giving Oscar no chance to prepare before his tail is inches away from his face. He chokes around a gasp. 

“Tyrian,” Hazel warns. Fists clenched by his sides. “You have your orders. Don’t forget them.”

Tyrian’s manic grin only twitches as his eye does. He’s crouched over Oscar’s locked up body, tail whirring as it threatens to poke his eye. 

“I would never disobey our Goddess. Eternally am I thankful for the opportunity she has bestowed upon me.” He runs his fingers together, head tilting, braid falling over his shoulder. His tail lifts Oscar’s face by the chin.

It takes everything within him not to begin hyperventilating. 

“Just one session before I take off; this is the gift she has given me. I am wholly undeserving of such an opportunity, but grateful beyond words.” He cackles, and the tail begins curling around Oscar’s throat. Eyes wide, his hands react before the logical part of him can and he tries to pull it off. Tyrian grins.

“Oh, good, you already understand!” His tail tightens and Oscar takes the deepest breath he can before his airway is blocked. His lungs scream from effort. 

Tyrian licks his teeth. “Struggling makes this _more fun_.” He unsheathes a pocket knife and twirls it with finesse. His voice turns into a dark rumble, irises purple. “You will suffer for the pain you’ve caused her.”

Hazel stands with his arms crossed off to the side, only watching. He’s too encased in shadows for Oscar to gauge his expression. Too blurry around the edges. 

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Tyrian giggles and releases his tail. There’s no time to drink in air for Tyrian deals a quick strike to his diaphragm, then two fingers between his ribs, and one more to his throat. Oscar’s eyes water and he fails to intake air. 

This is nothing like Hazel. With Hazel, Oscar could predict the order of operations. Blunt hits only meant to cause pain and release anger. 

That was not torture. That was a beating. Punishment. 

_This—_ this is torture. 

And even if Oscar changes his mind and wants to call Ozpin forth, he can’t, not with Hazel right there. He would know. He would make this worse.

Tyrian hops back, hands clapping, and bounces in glee. Watching as Oscar desperately gasps for air. His lungs are burning. Nothing he takes is enough. 

_Slow down._ Ozpin’s suffering is purely emotional. _Take smaller, lighter breaths._

He tries, but Tyrian gives him little time to adjust. His purple gaze watches critically, as if knowing Oscar is conversing with the mentor in his head. 

“My orders are to get the password to the lamp out of you.” Tyrian brandishes his knife. “But I _am_ allowed to have some fun.”

“We were ordered to keep him alive and verbal,” Hazel growls.

Tyrian snickers. “Don’t worry, little one, I won’t hit anything vital.”

Oscar is unable to look away as Tyrian lowers the knife to his thigh. Teasingly, he traces over Oscar’s pant leg. 

“A shame I don’t have longer to savor this. Oh well.” He slides the knife through the fabric and into Oscar’s skin. He whimpers, which is the wrong move because it only delights Tyrian. Sparks to ignite his flame of insanity. 

The knife digs deeper, and then he tugs up, diagonal, down, up again. Oscar can’t breathe, but he’s begun hyperventilating nonetheless. He twitches uselessly under the man. His instincts yell to fight or run or do ANYTHING to prevent what’s happening, but he knows that any attempt to stop the pain will only make it double down. 

So he sits there and watches in horror as Tyrian carves into him. Blood gushes from the wounds. Into his pants. Onto the knife. Some drops spray up onto Tyrian’s hand. 

“ _Beautiful_ ,” Tyrian whispers. He removes the knife. The skin around the blade clings as it exits, and a stream of blood spurts from the wound. Oscar’s stomach flips. 

Tyrian holds the knife up, inspecting it in the orange light leaking through the fleshy skylight. 

“Ready for round two?” He snickers, flipping the dagger between his fingers. 

Oscar can’t respond. Even if he wanted to. Which he certainly doesn’t. 

Tyrian’s grin only grows wider.

The knife slams down into his other thigh. It hits his bone. 

Oscar’s throat tears something raw as he screams.

“Wonderful!” Tyrian exclaims, wiggling the knife, scraping it against the bone. Oscar howls, body convulsing, as his nerves and muscles are shred. 

Tyrian moans, staring intently at the boy whose eyes have rolled back into his skull. 

Oscar sees black and red. He can’t tell if he’s still breathing. All he knows is searing, metal against bone grinding pain. The blade is still inside of him.

Tyrian stands, stretching his arms above his head. He rolls his neck. 

“Would you like a break, little one? Why don’t you ask her grace’s dear Ozma to come out?”

_We’re almost done, Oscar. Just hang on. Please, hang on._

Oscar can only hang his head and do his best not to cry. Not in front of them. He won’t give them that victory.

“The boy can’t answer if he’s in shock.”

 _“I know what I’m doing_ ,” hisses Tyrian. It devolves into a gleeful snicker. First, he taps down on the knife with the bottom of his boot. Pike against stone. Oscar jolts. His leg was starting to go numb, but the little jumpstart has it completely on fire again. 

“Nothing? _Oh_ , at least put up a fight.” He mocks, taking his foot off the knife to stand over Oscar. Tyrian bends down, tail yet again lifting Oscar’s face by the chin. 

He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t struggle. He won’t give this man anything he wants if he can’t help it.

He meets his eyes with the best glare he can muster. It only serves to delight Tyrian. There is no winning a war of psychology against a psychopath. 

“Such fire in this one! How my heart aches to spend all day with it, watching it gradually die out...” His face falls, dejected, until a sharpness flickers back in an instant. 

He stands to his full height and kicks, his heel digging into Oscar’s bladder. Then his stomach. Then each of his shoulders. Then one last time to his diaphragm for good measure. 

The world shuts off for a moment. 

For just a moment, Oscar falls through the world and into the dark abyss of nothingness. No pain, no thoughts, nothing. 

It’s nice.

The knife is yanked out of his thigh and he comes back with a wet gasp.

“That’s enough,” Hazel interjects, arms falling to his sides. Tyrian hums, satisfied, and plays with his knife some more, one arm behind his back and standing proper. 

“You’re very welcome, dear Hazel. I’ve given you much to work with. Do make sure my gift to the boy scars nicely, please?” He purrs. The knife is pocketed, blood and all, and Oscar feels a small part of him sag in relief, even if he’s barely cognitive enough to register it’s been sheathed.

Hazel only grunts. He glances over his shoulder as the two leave Oscar yet again.

As soon as they’re gone, Oscar whimpers. He falls back against the tooth as tears fall down his cheeks. Softly, so as to not jostle his injuries, he cries. He closes his eyes and sobs, muscles tight and strained as he tries to hold himself together. He aches all over. He can’t feel his hands because the shock of everything else and the sudden blood loss is too much.

 _It’s okay. You can rest now. Shhh._ Ozpin does his best to imitate the sensation of petting one’s head. Oscar focuses on the ghost touch, imagining gentle hands running through his hair. He cries tiny vulnerable noises.

The hiccups send spikes through his body but once he’s started he can’t slow down. He sobs, panting and gasping for air, letting out all of the pain through his wails.

Ozpin hovers, having much to say but enough sense not to overwhelm the boy with orders and consolation. Nonexistent hands continue to console the injured pup.

Eventually, when Oscar has cried himself dry, he falls silent. His throat stings, closing up so much it hurts to breathe or make sounds. He keeps his mouth shut and inhales through his nose instead. 

His body is now covered in even more bruising. There’s not much to assess beyond the blend of sharp and dull aches from old and new wounds alike. 

His legs. 

He— he can’t look at—

 _Oscar_ . A rush of calm stops his building panic attack. _Close your eyes and focus on my voice._

Okay. He can do that.

_Good. Very good._

Ozpin collects himself before his storm of emotions can overwhelm them.

_There is a fairytale I recall that reminds me of you; The Diamond Boy. Have you ever heard of it?_

He moves his head horizontally very slowly. It hardly counts as a shake. 

_I figured not. This is an old one. I’ve yet to find it in written form._

Ozpin recites the tale for him. He narrates like one would in a play, theatrical and deeply invested. He does voices for the characters, putting on a show for an audience of one— or, thousands, depending on who is listening. 

Oscar cracks the tiniest of smiles at the silly accents, the cheesy jokes and dramatic irony that befalls the diamond boy in his adventures. 

Ozpin keeps his attention until his body has relaxed. The blood has dried on his legs. Pooled into the fleshy, solid floor and matted in his tail’s fur. 

When the story ends, Oscar hums. His throat has healed considerably from the period of rest. It still hurts, but he can talk again. 

“You would have been a great audiobook narrator.”

_I recorded several, actually, for textbooks at Beacon._

“If I didn’t have to tolerate your endless chatter already, maybe I’d look into buying one.”

Ozpin’s relief that his spirit (and with it sass) has returned is palpable.

Then it turns guilty, sorrowful. 

_Please let me be the one to deal with your wounds._

Oscar opens his eyes finally. The sight before him doesn’t ignite the same panic as before. The lump in his throat returns, but he remains steady. He flexes his fingers tentatively. 

The blows Tyrian dealt to his shoulders affected all of the muscles leading down to his fingers, but he can at least still move them fine enough. He scoots back so he’s sitting up straighter. 

_Oscar._

“It’s okay.” Orange gloves hover over his right leg, where Tyrian had plunged the blade to the bone. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

 _Tear strips from your coat if you can. We can use them as wrappings_. Of course, Ozpin wants to say more, but keeps his composure.

Oscar tries to rip the bottom of his coat but the material is too thick. It’s combat gear, after all. He tears the bottom of his shirt instead. Ozpin directs him into cleaning the wound to the best of their abilities and then dressing it to hinder blood flow. 

_You’ve lost a bit, and without food or water..._

“I know. It’s bad.”

_Let’s move to the next one._

This is the one Oscar had been fearing. The carving. He didn’t process it very well at the time, but Ozpin did, and Oscar can feel his dread. 

“What is it?” He whispers, pulling the fabric of his pants back. It looks like an eye. 

_Her emblem. He’s essentially branded you as... her’s._

“Oh.”

 _Mm_. Their eyes close briefly. 

“Well, I’ve always wanted a tattoo.”

_Have you now?_

Oscar chuckles dryly. 

“No, but once this is over I’ll look into getting one. If— if the scar doesn’t heal. I can cover it.”

He begins ‘cleaning’ it.

_And what would you have inked?_

“I dunno. Flowers? Maybe something to remind me of home.”

He clenches his teeth. He wraps the wound. His shirt is almost a crop top, now. At least his cummerbund hides that fact. 

_Pine trees?_

“That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

_Many things are. I figured you might appreciate a straightforward approach._

“Heh.” Oscar finally leans back, the job done. 

Ozpin doesn’t have to state his pride for it to be known. Oscar rolls his eyes.

“Now what?” His stomach growls. His mouth is dry. He hasn’t used the restroom in a while. He’s tired. 

_Rest._

“And then what? Wait to get pummeled again?”

_Just rest for now, Oscar. I’m doing my best to plot._

“Anything yet?”

_Just rest._

So that’s a negative, got it. Oscar sighs, yet again closing his eyes. He allows himself to slide onto his back, thankful for the change in pressure. Ozpin resumes the ghostly caresses until Oscar falls into a state of light dozing.

* * *

Oscar would never say he’s been thankful to see Hazel, but he’s close to thinking it. Because it’s only Hazel, and no one else. 

“Speak, boy, and this doesn’t have to happen.”

Of course, what he has to say isn’t what Hazel wants to hear. He’s picked up again, punched in the eye this time. Kicked in the jaw. A tooth comes loose and he spits it out, the blood leaving with it. 

“What is the password for the lamp.” Repeating phrases like he’s been programmed. 

Another hit. A slam. A punch, a jab, a kick. 

Never once does he aim for the legs, nor does he address the wrapped wounds. He does not utilize Tyrian’s ‘gift.’

He’s... holding back. Oscar realizes this, eyes widening when his back is turned to the man.

Hazel demands for Ozpin’s presence. Snarls and tosses him like a rag-doll. Oscar lands on his back again, his spine and tail assaulted by cold electricity.

He tries to get up.   
Hazel is holding back, which means inside of him there’s something Oscar can reach for. Guilt? It must be. He’s only a child, not yet fully the man Hazel wishes to destroy. This is something he can work with.

“You can choose not to do this,” he tries. “Hurting me won’t solve anything. I’m not telling you the password. _Please_ , Hazel, you know this is wrong.”

“I will do what is necessary to put an end to his reign.” Hazel rolls his neck, approaching slowly. Oscar can’t stand to his full height, but he tries to at least meet Hazel’s gaze. “How much longer are you going to let this child suffer for you, Ozpin?”

“I’m choosing to be in control.” Oscar raises himself a little higher. “Everyone has a choice.”

 _Even your sister_ , is what they both think. Hazel growls something vicious and swings. Harder than before. Right into Oscar’s gut. 

Landing on his knees, a gear shifts loose and he vomits onto the floor. There’s little substance to it. The appetizers from the Schnee Manor and the soup Fiona’s uncle gave him. Aw, man. 

He cringes around the taste of stomach acid. Bile, sour and bitter. As if the room couldn’t smell bad enough. Hazel kicks him the moment he’s coughed up the last of his stomach.

He flies into the hard underside of a tooth. His head rings, every limb useless and limp. 

“Next time will be worse, boy. That’s a promise.” Hazel’s eyes pointedly linger on his thighs before he yet again takes his leave.

It’s not the worst outcome, at least. 

The words definitely affected Ozpin, though. His guilt radiates. 

_He’s right. I should be the one suffering his wrath._

“Stop.” Oscar coughs. His mouth tastes horrible. Blood and vomit. “Shut up.”

_Sorry._

“No, STOP that,” he snaps. “You don’t deserve to be tortured!”

_I do, Oscar._

“Neither of us deserve this, Ozpin!” He coughs again, then spits to the side. It sinks into the floor. The vomit has also been absorbed. That is revolting. “So shut up if all you’re going to do is argue with me.”

_I’m—_

“Stop apologizing, too. God, holy crap, you’re too much.” He manages to run a hand through his hair. His bangs fall back onto his sweaty forehead and stick. “Unless you can magically summon a shower for me, I don’t want to hear it.”

_I... can see that you’re upset. I’ll give you a moment._

Finally. Some peace and quiet. 

_Ow_. He shouldn’t have shouted like that. If his ribs weren’t broken before they definitely are now. He takes ten slow deep breaths again, feeling for damage. Yep, that’s gotta be broken. Hopefully no punctured lungs yet. _Yet_ , because next time will be worse, apparently.

Oscar curls his fingers. After next time, he might not be able to use all of them, so he savors the feeling of ten working digits while he can. He runs them down his body, feeling for breaks or bruises. 

His tail has gotten worse. Oddly bent in two places now, the first broken even further. His brown fur is covered in dirt and clotted with blood. Brushing it is going to be a nightmare. If he... ever gets to brush it again.

“Do you think they’re coming for me?”

 _I’d like to believe they are. They_ **_are_ ** _huntsmen._

“I’m just one per— a handful of people. Huntsmen are sworn to protect those who can’t protect themselves. They’re probably back in Mantle helping evacuate.”

_Why do you say that?_

Oscar shrugs. 

“I don’t know. Isn’t that the right thing to do? Save hundreds of lives over just one? I’ll come back anyways....” He wishes he could pull his knees to his chest. 

_Your life is not expendable just because we reincarnate, Oscar._

“Isn’t it?” He lies back. “Those people down in the crater— they can’t come back. They don’t have magic. They have one life.”

_So do you._

“Will I come back? If I die here?”

_You won’t die—_

“I _might_. Just answer the question, Oz.”

_......You will likely not reincarnate, no._

Oscar’s chest shudders. 

_Since we have not merged, your chances of being the next ‘voice’ are low. All the more reason to stay alive._

“Right, yeah.”

_Don’t sound so disappointed._

“I’m not— I’m just. I don’t like thinking about it.”

 _The merge_.

“Mm.”

_I understand._

“I know you do. You’ve said it a hundred times by now.”

Ozpin has the decency to chuckle.

_I have the niggling feeling next time won’t be as fun. Get some rest. I’ll wake you in an hour._

“Thanks.” 

Oscar closes his eyes, but he doesn’t sleep. He’s not tired like that. Instead, he retreats to a private corner of his mind and begins scheming. There’s a chance no rescue is coming, which means they have to get out of this mess themselves.

* * *

  
  


Ozpin ‘wakes’ him next time expressing his burden to bear, and Oscar again refuses, relaying the information he’d realized about Hazel pulling punches.

Discussion of Salem and her dividing forces. 

“Maybe we should do the same.”

“We certainly are similar, you and I.” 

Hazel enters again. 

“Great.”

“Oscar, Please.”

More talk. 

Ozpin takes over. 

WOW— it is much nicer back here where the pain is merely an afterthought. Oscar has to commend Ozpin for not even flinching during his shift into control. The usual claustrophobic feeling of being sidelined is gone... rather, Oscar is simply existing elsewhere. Taking a break. Is this closer to what it will feel like? When he’s merged?

Salem enters. They’re dragged to her throne. They watch as Atlas is breached. 

“You’re too late.”

Oscar is thrown into his cell soon after, although this time with a twist. The hooks he’d been purposely NOT thinking about are finally put to use. His wrists are bound in rope and he’s hung. Immediately his shoulders ache and the space between his blades cries for release. His tail hangs limp in the air, swaying slightly whenever the Grimm whale convulses.

Now that he’s had a taste of that safe, isolated space in his mind, it is far too easy to accept Ozpin when he offers yet again. Oscar lingers in the back as Ozpin is beaten. Punched like— well, a punching bag. Even from the confines of their mind, Oscar can feel the nerves of their wrists losing feeling. Can hear the ringing in Ozpin’s ears as he almost loses consciousness from a particularly nasty strike. Can sense that a lung has been punctured by shattered bone. Can taste the blood that rushes out of their throat and falls to the floor. The heavy weight that pools in his feet as gravity damns them.

And yet, through it all, Ozpin tries to sway Hazel. Tries to follow through on the plan _Oscar_ made. He takes _Oscar’s_ lead, _Oscar’s_ advice, allows the boy to nudge his thoughts and influence his chosen words. 

He is not physically in control, but it is not Ozpin who runs the operation. 

Eventually.

Finally. 

After talking through blood stained teeth and a dislocated jaw, Ozpin concludes his explanation of Salem’s curse. 

“Nice story, but if Gretchen’s death taught me one thing, it was never to trust you.”

Uh oh. Ozpin set up the groundwork, but Hazel is too blinded by his hatred for the man to listen. 

Oscar braces himself for the pain. 

_Please, let me._

**But, Oscar—**

_You want him to trust us, trust me._

After the most thoughtful, pondering look Hazel has given him yet, he leaves. 

Oscar sways slightly, suspended in the air. His arms have lost all feeling. His feet are heavier than anvils. Blood boils under his tongue and the distant sound of explosions and gunfire are nonexistent through the ringing of his ears. 

But— he did it. He managed to break through Hazel’s hatred, just enough to get the ball rolling. He really did it.

_You are truly incredible._

“We don’t know that it worked. He could be telling Salem right now.”

_Don’t have such little faith in yourself. You saw his expression._

“I did.” He attempts to wiggle free. It’s a futile effort. “Fuck.”

_Language._

“I’m allowed one curse word for my job well done.”

Ozpin snorts. 

_Fine. How about we get you down?_

“How am I supposed to do that?”

_You won’t like it._

“I’ll still do it if it means being on that disgusting floor again.”

_We have to use magic._

Oscar groans. 

“You’re right. I don’t like that.” He closes his eyes, brow furrowing. “Show me what I have to do.”

A guiding hand is extended. Oscar accepts it, allowing it to guide him in close for a full body embrace. Tendrils of pure power encase him in a hug. It is Ozpin, in spirit and power, and it funnels into every pore of Oscar’s being. 

There is a shift in their soul. Two magnets inching together, still held back by opposing forces but that much closer to connecting. The space subtracts. 

Energy fills Oscar’s soul. It is Ozpin, Ozma, their magic.

A green fire ignites around his wrists, burning the ropes to a crisp. 

He lands on the floor and crumples onto his side. The power vanishes. He gasps and emerges from the lake, shaking and wet. Then he is dry, washed up on the shore, and back in his own body.

 _“Fffffffff,_ ” he wheezes through a shudder. 

_You’re okay. Take a moment._

He takes more than just a moment. 

Ozpin grows antsy. 

_We need to take inventory._

“Nghn...” 

_Oscar, get up. Or I will do it for you._

“No!” He gasps, eyes flying open. He scrambles over onto his back, heart pounding against his chest. 

They’re so close. 

He’s almost gone. 

_You’re still here. You’re still you. The merge is not complete. You’re okay_.

The rapid fire heartbeats eventually steady, his climbing panic subsided.

_Focus on your physical state. Begin with your feet again._

A distraction. Okay. He could use that.

He wiggles his toes. They’re heavy and sluggish. Ozpin explains the effects of prolonged hanging to him as he explores his body. 

Asphyxiation (thank god he wasn’t up there for more than twenty minutes), nerve damage, loss of bodily functions. 

Like holding in his bladder. 

At this point it may as well happen. Ozpin regards him only with sympathy as he wets himself. At least there wasn’t much to be released— he’s not drank in.... days, at this point. 

His poor, beautiful fur is so disgusting now. Soaked in urine and blood and grime.

_Your hands. Make a fist for me._

He tries. He really does. The fingers don’t respond, and Oscar watches his arms fail to move as though he’s not in his own body. 

_Move your hands._

“I can’t.” He tries lifting them. They hardly budge and they don’t lift off the ground. “I can’t feel them.”

_Can you take off your gloves?_

“How do you expect me to do that if I can’t even move my arms?”

_You’re a flexible young man with working legs. You can do it._

Ozpin nudges him onto his side. The side with less broken ribs. It still hurts, but Oscar has almost grown used to the pain. At least that’s something he can feel. The numbness is what scares him most.

He bends a knee up towards his chest. The muscles in his thigh light aflame, but he pushes through with grit teeth. Awkwardly, he manages to maneuver his knee up to his wrist and push it towards his mouth. 

It’s so dirty. Oh gods have mercy.

“Eugh.” He gags. Not only is he dirty, he’s damp and sweaty and grimy and bloody and—

The more he thinks about it, the closer he gets to dry heaving again. 

_Think of all the hot chocolate we’ll have after this is over._

“My love for chocolate is not an addiction like yours.”

_Still better than this._

“Rotten milk would be better than this.”

_My goal was to divert your attention AWAY from gag-inducing topics._

“It almost worked. Insert coin to try again?”

_Your ability to snark me during the lowest moments is almost impressive._

“It’s how I’m coping.” He inches closer to his wrist, then bites into the guard around his wrist. Never has he been more thankful for his canines. He tears into the stretchy fabric a bit ferociously until it comes off. 

His wrist is a deep purple and red. Puffy and— nope, not thinking about it. Not thinking about how he’s going to have to put his mouth near all that puss and blood and—

He turns his head upward just in time to avoid puking on his hand. The stomach bile splatters onto the floor, but some trails down his chin and his cheek. 

He moans, sagging in defeat. 

This is only the first hand. 

_If you don’t do this, you could lose them completely. You like your hands, don’t you?_

“I’ll get robotic ones,” he complains. 

_From where? Atlas? Good luck with that._

“Ugh.” The old man has a talent for annoying him into doing the healthy thing, he’ll give him that.

He pushes through the sightly horrors and tries tugging his glove off. It won’t budge. 

_You must be inflamed. Just move on to the other wrist and remove that guard. Then you can rest._

Easier said than done. He has to flip himself onto his other side, the MORE injured side, and repeat the process. 

This time he doesn’t vomit.

“All done,” he sighs pathetically. It comes out more as a mewl. Relief doesn’t begin to describe it.

_I’m so proud of you, Oscar._

The boy hums in acknowledgement, too tired to roll over onto his back.

_You’re strong. Brave. Resilient. I cannot begin to describe how deeply you’ve inspired me._

“Thanks, Oz,” he slurs. “Just need a nap.”

_I will keep watch. Good job._

Oscar passes out moreso than he does fall asleep.

He dreams of a girl who fell through the world.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
